Home Coming
by starringdakota
Summary: post-Fall, Sherlock is back in London after years abroad fighting what is left of Moriarty's empire.  He is adamant that he shouldn't see John again.  But he does see him... and John doesn't even realise.  haven't seen series 2 yet, reviews are cool.
1. Home

**A/N: hey chickens, this is my first piece of writing in a while, i've been in france for the past two months and have finally started my new year's resolutions which include posting to FF a lot more often, just another nobody hoping for the acceptance of her peers so if you like i would really appreciate a review to tell me what you thought and all that jazz :)**

**thanks for clicking the little link to my story and hopefully continuing past this to read!**

**Dakota xx**

He made sure that he looked different for his return home. Coming back to London meant that he was once again recognised and was surrounded by people who possibly new his name or his face. It was different when he was in France or Germany or when he spent those three months in Australia because the people were different. Coming back required work on Sherlock's behalf.

For a start, the hair had to change. The dark locks had become part of people's attraction towards him. He didn't understand it. It was simply easier for him to not visit a hairdressers or anything of that nonsense and so he just let his hair grow like that, until of course, John made an appointment at the salon down the road and forced him to go there - something about colonies of mice living in it or some other exaggeration.

John.

Anyway, the hair had to go.

Opposite direction. Red. Light red. He had just found the bottle at a supermarket in the US and decided that that would be a suitable colour to change to. It was unimportant really the colour. The length too had to change. Much shorter, though still had the same irritating curls at the ends. He has considered just shaving it all off himself but he could only imagine his mother's horror if she ever saw it like that. The old lady had been through enough, tough as she was, and despite being on the other side of the world, in the end, it did matter and he would hate to think what Mycroft would make of it when he saw. It had been three years since the two brothers had laid eyes on each other but Sherlock knew that Mycroft realised that he wasn't dead. He easily deduced the fact and could also have easily found his consulting detective brother, but he understood Sherlock's reasoning and why it had to be done. So Mycroft left his brother to himself, keeping tabs on him from a distance. He respected his brother's choice, and there was a gentleman's agreement between the two that had never existed before. But Sherlock needed some room this time, and for once, Mycroft allowed it.

As is the most obvious part of any disguise, the dress sense had to change too. This one had to be more of a conscious decision on Sherlock's part. The things he felt most comfortable in would no longer suffice. He had to tone down the 'Sherlock'. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, this was what made up Sherlock's wardrobe these days.

Although, it was more of a suitcase than a wardrobe. He had to travel light, keep moving in case he had to deal with another of the remaining threats and the few left that worked alongside Moriarty to keep his global enterprise running. Whenever such a threat was eliminated, he needed to move again, keep on his toes.

Finally, he felt that what remained of Moriarty's empire has dissolved, the men, the fortune, the name – it was nothing now. Therefore, it was time to return back to his home turf. His job done and he was ready to get back into other things to occupy his time. He didn't stop to think if Mrs. Hudson was still around, what had become of the flat, if Scotland Yard would once again solicit his assistance. He never in his life stopped to think of the scenarios like that. He wanted to come home, back to London so that was the only option there was.

The only thing that he ever thought about when he was on the plane from Rome to Heathrow Airport was his old colleague. The Doctor Watson. The only thing he wondered about. He was adamant that he and John should not meet again. He hoped that John had left London in the years he had been gone. Had a family, done all those things – the wife, the children, the dog, the people mover, the country home. He knew that John was still alive though. And that was really the only thing that made Sherlock care. He knew that Mycroft would have contacted him if something had happened, or that through his own methods he would have discovered if anything happened to the Doctor.

For the years he was gone he had tried to remove Watson from his mind. To pretend that he too – like astronomy and politics – was not important, but not matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it to the memory of his best friend. It was physically impossible. The friendship that the two had forged was seared into Sherlock's mind, like nothing else ever had been before. John's memory burned brighter the more he tried to cover it over with information about tobacco blends or the secrets that handwriting can conceal. Sherlock would just have to deal with something in his mind aside from his work. It was new. But Sherlock discovered that he did not mind that memories. They made him happy. Almost as happy as seeing the blank faces of those in the room around him when he was called in on a case, or the looks of shock and admiration that sometimes came along with deductions and results. It was better that any stimulant that he could find, the heroin couldn't match it. The drugs and tobacco had become dull and Sherlock for the past few months had found himself addicted or attracted to those things anymore – he was addicted to remembering.


	2. Bored

**A/N: hey there, me again! this is going to be a fairly short fic to get back into the groove of things, but if you like it tell me :) i'll be posting more often more and i have tons of story ideas tucked away in little crannies of my brain so if do enjoy this, hopefully there will be more like it coming**

**thanks for continuing on to chapter 2 (there will be a chapter 3 too, if you are interested of course)**

**Dakota xx**

Fairly soon after Sherlock landed at Heathrow, he answered a call from Mycroft, welcoming him home. He realised that he was once again under surveillance that moment that he left the airport and hailed a taxi. The men that Mycroft sent after Sherlock were never the most inconspicuous men. He supposed his brother though it funny or something like that. Unimportant.

He had to find somewhere new to live in London. He chose a simple flat. Fairly cheap, although money was never really an issue for Sherlock. Miles away from Baker St. He wasn't risking it. There was a park near the new rooms and he had developed a habit of walking out into the park, choosing a bench and sitting behind a paper, deducing about the people walking past.

Today was another fairly dull day. Not many people chose today to head out into this particular park. Sherlock was practically forced into this after he discovered that John still worked alongside Scotland Yard. He couldn't go back and he discovered that his old Doctor was competent enough to handle the cases. Sure, he missed things but he definitely saw much more than Lestrade or any of the other so called 'detectives' that are employed by the Yard.

With no cases to solve, Sherlock just sat and remembered and deduced.

Walking amongst the trees and bushes today were two members of his surveillance – two overly large men, with sunglasses and hidden devices in their sleeves and ear wigs (that were not as hidden as the men thought they were). They were both armed, one packed a pistol on a ridiculously visible holster at his waist and the other, who was clearly the more intelligent of the two and the other's superior, had a gun at both his ankle and at his waist. The men themselves – relatively uninteresting. The superior was married, nagging wife who doesn't want children. He had a medium sized dog which Sherlock was fairly sure was a Labrador – a gentle and kind enough dog for the wife (who had turned the dog into the only child that she ever wanted) while at the same time being a manly enough dog to not embarrass the tough husband (who imagined the dog was the son he wished for). The other man – gay, still in the closet, – and extremely happy that he was put on the team to follow Sherlock around. He would be disappointed though, not really Sherlock's area.

Only three other people were in Sherlock's eye shot. A man – mid to late 40s, three children, married, didn't live near this park which was reaffirmed in Sherlock's mind when he deduced that the woman he was with was not married and was, in fact, his mistress. She was divorced, he was soon to be.

And then there was a teenager – a girl, daughter of a single parent (Sherlock suspected a widower but he couldn't be completely sure at this distance), she was skipping school and just as uninteresting as the rest of the subjects available for observation.

He returned to 'reading the paper' – in actuality he couldn't care less, but he would run his eyes back and forward across the page while withdrawing into himself and running through past cases and boxing techniques for tonight when he would go to the gym and beat some man who favoured their own chances of succeeding against this sharp-edged, thin man.

Though behind his thoughts, Sherlock was vaguely aware of something at his feet, playing with his shoes. He raised the paper off his thighs so he could see his feet and only then realised that there was a child playing with his shoelaces. One shoe had completely lost the lace, the boy – no older than two and a half – was busily working away at the other lace, though not very efficiently, his frustration rising with each failed attempt to undo the double knot tying the lace in the neat bow.

And now that he was actually aware of what was going on around him, he heard it. And it terrified him more than anything else he had ever experienced.

'Sherlock!'


	3. Discovery

That familiar voice. Saying his name. no question who it was, no need for Sherlock's mind or memory. The recognition of the name was a reflex action. Sherlock's entire body clenched and tightened, his hand's tightened on the newspaper. John couldn't know he was back. Now that Sherlock though about it he realised that he was embarrassed by everything, for leaving John the way he did. He was too embarrassed to see him again, to look him in the eyes and try to find the words to explain the wherefores and the hows. He couldn't do it.

How had John recognised him? He had changed himself, the way he talked, walked, looked - he knew that his disguise was good enough. And he had the newspaper in front of his face, hiding his prominent cheek bones and his angled face. Only his eyes remained over the top of the paper, the piercing eyes that intimidated, shocked, scared, intrigued, attracted… reactions that changed as much as the eyes themselves did, never constant or settling on a colour.

From over the paper, John came into sight, he was limping again. He was moving as fast as he could towards Sherlock's bench, his shoulder getting more and more sore with the extra strain that he was putting on it with the cane in his hand – the fast he tried the move, the slow he became, not being able to use his cane as well with the increasing pain in both his arm and leg.

It was now that Sherlock gave another glance at the boy at his feet, who had now defeated the double knot and was feeling very proud of himself. And it was now too that the boy looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock knew those eyes, he had looked at them so many times before. They were eyes that looked at him usually full of admiration, enthusiasm, occasionally disappointment or defiance, but something that they never had was fear, offense and always hope.

These eyes looked with only confusion, these eyes didn't know this Sherlock's face or mind or life. All he knew was that the man who gave him the eyes – who he had obviously escaped from much too quickly for that man to keep up with his cane – was his father and was calling his name.

'Sherlock, Christ's sake! How many times? Don't wonder off like that, where's your teddy?'

John picked up his son with a grunt and much difficulty and bushed him clean of the dirt he had been sitting in. The little Sherlock only giggled and grabbed at his father's arms, squeezing them and holding on as tight as he could, his adventure over and happy to be safe in John Watson's arms once more.

John turned to the ginger man his son had been harassing, 'Sorry about that, mate. He's just always running off, full of energy, take advantage of me' John laughed, a flash of sadness and some of that embarrassment pashing behind his eyes as he gestured to his aching leg, 'You know how kids can be sometimes'

'Um, of course, it's fine… excuse me.' Sherlock got up from the bench and turned away from his best friend – his only friend. He walked away as fast as he could, gracefully gliding away from John before that small feeling of recognition of those eyes could grow and spread inside enough that he knew where the feeling stemmed from. Sherlock had to get away before his name could appear in John's mind and he would turn once again to look at the slender man racing away from him and think of his old roommate and, still, his best friend too. Before John could realise that the man who owned those eyes would not look at him again or smile at him and realise that no matter how many cases he tried to help the Yard with or try to live like he did when he was around Sherlock, his limp would not go away again and he was all alone with his son - the constant reminder of the incredible man that the world lost three years ago.

**A/N: what do you think? i would really like to know. also, i was thinking of writing more on this, i dunno, i would love people's opinions on my writing... thankyou for reading, chickens**

** Dakota xx**


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